Don't mind if I do
by stoleyourthunder
Summary: Post-Reichenbach, John doesn't know how to cope. So he turns to alcohol. Things only get worse from there. Colab with RockinJanelle and Withaflourish.


**Title:** "_Don't mind if I do."  
><em>**Pairing:** _Johnlock_ (Sherlock/John)  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> _1700_**  
>Rating:<strong> _T_

**_A/N: This was part of a project between myself, Withaflourish, and RockinJanelle (you can find them both on here as well as Tumblr). Basically, we all started with the same two lines and the same simple concept. But we all took it in different directions from there. You should read their stories too. Or instead. Yeah, let's go with "instead". Also: obvious alcoholism trigger is obvious._**

* * *

><p>It started as "just one".<p>

That's how it always starts.

"Just one drink."

It doesn't make me forget what happened.

And it certainly doesn't make me happy.

It just makes everything… soft. Blurry. Like a polaroid only half developed.

Simple, broad strokes.

Simple.

It makes me try not to think about the things I used to say to Harry too much.

Sarah gave me a month off at the clinic after everything happened, but I ended up quitting anyways.

Hard to do flu jabs when your hands are shaking too badly to even pick up a syringe.

I ended up leaving the flat too, before Mrs. Hudson felt like she had to kick me out. Moving in with my sister was out of the question, obviously. I thought about calling up Lestrade or Stamford or even Mycroft, just for a little while…

Until I realized they had no reason to say yes.

And I wouldn't if I were them.

(I'm not exactly a whole person anymore.)

x

Your options on the street aren't as limited as you might think. There are quite a few shelters and if you can time it right and seem sufficiently pitiful, you can usually get a bed and a warm meal. I figured that much out the first night.

And then I never did it again.

Something about being so completely and entirely dependent on other people, combined with the hard beds and shite food reminded me creepily of POW camps.

Also, they really don't serve beer in hell.

Turns out, they actually expect you to go to meetings.

I am... was a doctor. I have no delusions about what I'm doing to myself. Fucks with the body's immune system, impairs the liver's ability to function, homeostasis is pretty much shot, and a bloke's "performance" isn't exactly going to be in top form after a few years of heavy drinking.

Still don't see why that makes it worth stopping at this point.

I'm already cold all the time. I was before I even moved out of 221B. I have been ever since Switzerland.

I'm not exactly a sought-after romantic commodity at this point. So the sex bit doesn't bother me at all.

And as for the health stuff… well. No great tragedy there.

x

So after that first night, I slept where I could on the streets. Not so bad. Though you have to be careful that you don't stray too far into someone's established territory. Nobody's really stupid enough to leave their things sitting out and not expect them to get nicked. But there are some tell-tale signs. Cleared out sections in alleys. Mysterious dry spots on the pavement. Skips already picked clean of anything that might be useful by scavengers. Sherlock pointed that tell out to me on a case once.

I just have to be careful.

But finding a place to sleep is only a small part of it. I need other things too. Like food and warm clothes and… maybe a few drinks. And unless you want to steal or turn tricks or get into the drugs business, you've got to get creative.

Panhandling is always an option. One I'm not particularly fond of. But it's an option.

When I first started out, I did a bit of consulting.

Not that kind. Doctoring.

Just rashes, bruises, broken fingers.

Had to stop when I got roughed up for telling some potheads that their breathing might be better if they quit smoking the ass-weed the bloke in Piccadilly sells. Apparently people don't take well to their product being called ass-weed. Apparently breathing really is boring.

After that I was _really_ roughing it for a while.

But then I ran into an old "friend".

Sherl...

One of the people who helped him...

Part of his...

...

The woman from the Vermeer case who found the Golem. We recognized each other after a bit. I tried to explain what happened. I still haven't gotten very good at it.

She felt sorry for me. Or felt obligated. Because next thing I knew, she was offering me a job.

Apparently, homeless networks are all the rage.

I asked what I would have to do and she said it was relatively simple. Running messages back and forth discretely, picking things up, a little bit of subtle reconnaissance.

"Nobody really looks at us, eh? Handy for a spy. Their eyes just skip right over us."

I asked her who I'd be working for and she said it's better if I don't know.

She's probably right.

x

So I've been at this for over two years now.

Delivering a little bit of black-market prescription drugs. Silently passing coded letters to bureaucrats in suits who remind me just a little bit too much of Mycroft. Even what I've come to accept is pretty much gunrunning.

It's a bit like the old days. Only now I do it all tipsy.

But today, this stops.

x

This morning, I sprinted up to that woman's little set up under the bridge. I've learned now, she isn't really the head of the operation, but she's as close as I could get.

"What the _bloody hell_ is this?" I said, as I dropped a grimy, duct tape patched rucksack at her feet.

She barely glanced at it out of the corner of her eye, "Your next job, I think."

"Yep. I picked this up in St Pancras this morning. I'm supposed to deliver it tonight."

"Good. Do it."

"Do you even know what the _fuck_ this is?"

"Doesn't particularly matter, does it?"

"Oh, I dunno, I'm of the opinion that _three kilos of C-4 matters._ Do you have any comprehension of the kind of damage that could do in the hands of the professional? _In the hands of an amateur who doesn't know what he's doing?_"

She sighed like I was being some sort of great bloody burden in her life, "What's wrong, John? You know we cater to _those kinds_ of clients. You've never had a problem before. If memory serves, those Russian drug lords you delivered product for last week paid you quite nicely. And in vodka. Wasn't that nice of them?" She glared at me, giving me her full, cold focus, "That's what happens, John. We help people with their problems. We don't ask. We don't talk. We do what we're told and we're paid well for it. So. Do the job. Or I can find someone who will."

And then she turned her attention back to the oblivious tourists passing by.

"_Any spare change, luv?"_

I don't think she even watched me leave.

She doesn't understand that people fucking their lives up with drugs is their choice. That whatever the people who get those guns use them for, that's their decision.

But explosives are different.

I've seen what they can do.

I've been at the heart of it.

And it's never good.

You can't justify blowing someone's job, or home, or possessions or _life_ sky high.

You just can't.

x

So, here I am.

Perched on a rooftop in Islington, I'm waiting as patiently as I can for my rendezvous to show up. Not on the roof, mind you. In the alley bellow. He's either late or hiding.

No skin off my nose. He'll have to come out eventually. And won't he be surprised when he does?

I can feel the hefty weight of my Browning weighing in the pocket of my jacket. It's one of the few things I managed to keep from my old life.

I'm contemplating making some sort of ruckus to draw the bastard into the open… when suddenly I am struck with the distinct and, unfortunately, not unfamiliar sensation of being tackled from behind.

"_WHO ARE YOU WORKING FOR?_" my attacker's voice booms in my ear.

His very very LOUD voice.

His very very DEEP voice.

He…

"Sherlock?" I wheeze through the choke-hold I've now been put in.

"The devil…?" Suddenly, I am released, only to be immediately grabbed by my shoulders and spun around. And in the following moment, all I can think is:

_Oh god._

"Oh god," Sherlock whispers.

Because it's him.

It's really him.

It's him and it can't be him and it shouldn't be him but it's _him_.

"John. John, I'm… I'm so… sorry."

He's here.

"We had to catch Moran."

He's here and he's _holding_ me.

"I was fine after the fall, but we had to catch Moran still! And I couldn't put you in danger like that, not after we just got Moriarty off our backs."

I wonder if I'm breathing.

"I'm so sorry, John. Forgive me."

I wonder if I'm crying.

"I never meant to make contact before the time was right."

I'm crying.

"And now I'm tracking a ring of traffickers supplying Moran's network with weapons and… John. John, forgive me."

…

"John. Say something. _Anything_."

God, he looks so sad.

"Tell me you hate me. Tell me you never want to see me again. I'll understand but PLEASE. Say something."

He wants me to speak? I open my mouth and try to remember how to make the sounds.

…

Nothing.

Must try again.

…

Oh no, his eyes! Those beautiful beautiful eyes. Shining with tears. That must have been I sob I just made. No, no, WRONG, Watson!

…

…

…

"I'm sorry," I manage to rasp out.

He's confused now. I always loved it when I could make him confused.

"What are you talking about, John?" But before he's even finished the question, I know he sees.

Takes a good long look at me.

Deduces.

"I'm sorry," I whisper again.

Wiry frame.

Patched second-hand clothes.

Dirt caked beneath the fingernails.

Jaundice.

Spider angiomas.

Sweaty brow.

Blown pupils.

And traitorous _traitorous_ shaking hands.

Sherlock closes his eyes. Can't bear to look at me.

"Why. Why, John?"

Such a silly question. I could almost laugh.

"Because you were gone."


End file.
